A/N: Assume Francis speaks French with everyone but Arthur and Gilbert.
Title: The Genius Next Door
Number of chapters: 15 + epilogue
Word count: 70k + total, 4480 for this part
Cover image by: Eric Rougier
Summary: The beginning of the descent.
Warnings: Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.
Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!
They were falling apart and if Francis didn't talk to Arthur now, the damage done would become irreparable. Instead, he found himself on Antonio's doorstep with a small suitcase in one hand.
He'd been switching between Antonio and Gilbert and Feliciano's houses for the past week, and he had not seen Arthur since. He neither wanted Arthur to know of his declining health nor did he want to be living in the face of the stalemate that was his and Arthur's love life, which would be almost as worse as acknowledging said stalemate openly.
"Just speak with him, amigo," encouraged Antonio, who still possessed one of the only three smiles in the world that could cheer Francis up under any and all circumstances, after having opened his front door to the miserable man standing outside.
"You don't understand," sighed the blond. "It's more complicated than that. Can I stay over again tonight?"
"Of course. You know you are always welcome to." And with that, Antonio offered his hand in a strange display of affection, which Francis took gingerly. The Spaniard then pulled him in for a bone-crushing hug.
He whispered fiercely in the other's ear, "Whatever it is, Francis, I have confidence that you will find the right path! After all, you are the most talented when it comes to the matters and affairs of love. If anyone can do it, you can."
Trouble was, Francis didn't feel like the professional at romance anymore. He felt very much like he did the first time he'd ever been young and in love – lost, confused, and helpless.
"He knows about the affair," said Francis in a quiet voice, and he felt Antonio's back stiffen against him – because besides Arthur, Antonio and Gilbert were the only ones who knew about Chel. But Francis had never told them about what happened after Chel, despite their pleadings.
"Are – are you positive?" asked Antonio, face white as he pulled away and held Francis by his shoulders.
"I think so," said the Frenchman. "Dieu, he knows, but it's been three weeks since he's known and he hasn't spoken a word to me since. Perhaps he's in denial –"
"You're an idiot," cried Antonio, "A horrible, horrible idiot, Francis –"
"I know, I know –"
"You need to fix things, now!"
"I know!" Francis wailed, wringing his hands. "And on top of cheating itself, I'm a coward who can't even face his own husband after all that's gone down, instead choosing to hide behind his friends' backs. I shouldn't have stayed silent, I should have chased after him the moment he found out, because I love him. I know that, I goddamn know all that –"
Poor Antonio, best friends with a man who gets into more trouble than he was worth. Once again he pulled the blond in for another hug, feeling utterly powerless, because he was Antonio and he was never one for knowing what to say and when to say it.
"You're not a coward," he said firmly. "You're not a coward, Francis."
"Don't lie," pleaded the Frenchman. "Not to me."
"Okay, you're a bit of a coward," confessed Antonio without shame, and Francis almost laughed at his blunt forwardness as he dabbed the corners of his wet eyes with a bit of sleeve. "But you still have time to change – to make up with Arthur."
And Francis looked straight at Antonio and for the first time felt a glimmer of hope bloom in his chest.
"Promise me you'll try talking to Arthur tomorrow –" Antonio continued, seeing how Francis was beginning to latch on to his every word, "– promise you'll tell him how sorry you are, how you'll make it up to him if only he'll take you back. I have tons of tips for you if you'd like, I have experience –"
But apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because with that Francis promptly lurched forwards and made this awful gagging noise and the next thing Antonio knew, the back of his neck felt very wet and warm. As did the back of his shirt.
Francis looked horrified with himself. "Antonio –"
Antonio only laughed, though he also made a face and detached himself from Francis. "No matter, amigo."
"I can't believe this —" wailed the Frenchman, who understood the importance of beautiful and delicate fashion.
Antonio smiled, interrupting him. "It is only a shirt, Francis."
The moment was broken, and the wisp of hope in Francis disappeared along with the food he had attempted to force down earlier that morning from that stupid French pastry store he had always loved.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes," answered the blond, though a little shakily, as he wiped the bile from the corners of his lips. "Nothing to it – just thoughts of Arthur, I think. Guilty conscience. If we talk about him too much it'll be sure to happen again."
Antonio looked as though he was about to say more, opening and closing his mouth like a flabbergasted fish. He ran a hand through his delightfully curly hair and then chuckled. "Are you sure you're not sick? Maybe you have a fever? You look kind of pale."
Francis shook his head and tried to duck, but Antonio's hand was already clamped over his forehead. The forward movement brought their noses an inch away from each other. The Spaniard made a humming noise and tapped his chin with a single finger.
"Would you like some tomato juice?"
Francis gave Antonio a strange look, but was glad when the other disengaged himself.
"Is it supposed to help with fevers?" he asked, mildly confused.
"Nah, you don't have one," called the other, already halfway inside the house, and with some relief Francis followed him. "It's good for sadness, though."
(Francis was unable to keep his eyes off the smattering of blood on the back of Antonio's shirt as they walked to the front door, blood that the Spaniard would not notice until much, much later as he goes to do his laundry. The blood, Francis noted wryly, much overcame the amount of food he had thrown up this time.)
Though Francis would spend the rest of the day eagerly learning about all the thousand-and-one ways one could apologize to his partner (and generally trying to forget about the partner to whom he was going to apologize to very soon), enjoying the time spent with his long-time best friend (as well as with Gilbert, who showed up later in the evening), and drinking the disgusting cocktails made from tomato juice, he could not, however, get rid of that weird feeling in his gut that something was amiss and it wasn't just from the absence of pastries.
In a terrible twist of events on the way back to his flat, Francis broke and made a U-turn just a street away from their destination despite Gilbert's frustrated sigh. Arthur would not be returning home for another hour, and Francis couldn't bear the thought of having to face the empty apartment alone (or so he told himself). And his German tag-along didn't count.
Down the Parisian streets he went, hands in his lightly padded coat. Everything reminded him of Arthur – the roar of cars as they thundered by and the sounds their wheels made against the hard, wet asphalt, the flashing of lights against the darkening sky, the rolls of detailed clouds against the ocher horizon – for Paris had become over the years as much his home as it had Arthur's and they'd seen it all together.
From across the street the sound of children's laughter rang, and Francis found himself unwillingly walking towards the noise. He leaned against the black gate that led into the park where they played and rested his cheek against the cold metal bars.
He wondered what Arthur was doing now. He envisioned a pair of glasses perched on the end of the Briton's nose and he thought of pursed lips and the glow of artificial light from an office computer and what it'd be like to drop by at the company building just to say hello. Maybe he'd fall asleep in Arthur's giant swivel chair with his head in his arms on the table, maybe he'd wake up right at the end of the day so that the two could walk home together. Maybe he'd manage to point out this exact sunset he was now witnessing – and smooth his thumbs over the dimples in Arthur's cheeks and lean over to steal a single kiss.
"You know, if you can't help yourself, there's nothing me and Tony can do for you," said Gilbert softly as he came up from behind Francis.
"This is all your fault," whispered the Frenchman, voice almost lost in his silk scarf.
"Hey, man, you're the one who had the affair."
Francis spun around, eyes blazing. "You —" he hissed, pointing an accusing finger, "You were the one who put ideas in my head!"
"What ideas?"
"Ideas — ideas of —" He threw his hands up before burying them in his long locks and clenching them to form tight fists. "You told me, six months ago, that Arthur and I would fall apart if I didn't do something drastic!"
"What the hell are you going on about? When?"
Try as Francis might, he could not manage to recall the night he had spent with Gilbert at the bar — mainly because, although he was one of those rare people gifted with the unusual luck of never having a hangover or suffering from short-period memory losses after a long night of drinking, he'd still been utterly wasted that night and even he had his limits, especially if said night had occurred half a year before.
When Gilbert saw that Francis was not going to answer, he angrily continued instead. "So you thought having an affair would fix anything? I thought you were better than that, like I thought your marriage with the brows actually meant something to you. You're not a fucking bachelor anymore, Francis."
"I needed," whispered Francis, "I needed a way to make Arthur stay."
"Wow, look at you, Einstein. Are you satisfied? Has your plan worked?"
"I haven't seen my husband in over a week!" cried Francis, grabbing Gilbert by the shoulders. A few dozen meters away, the children stopped their playing to point at the crazy man who was interrupting their games, whispering all the while in each other's ears. "Arthur was supposed to pay more attention to me, not less! I think I am getting progressively sicker every day because of this, because every little thing I see reminds me of him and if this continues I will surely be diagnosed with depression or the likes. But I cannot even fix anything because I have no idea what to say or how to apologize, despite dear Antonio's cute efforts."
"What were you thinking when you did it?" asked Gilbert, voice dangerously low. His arms remained fastened by his side. "When you had the affair you knew you would regret, what were you thinking?"
"I don't know," Francis said helplessly, dropping his hands from Gilbert's shoulders.
"When you first told me about it, I laughed —"
"I remember."
"— and I told you that the brows deserved it because of how much shit he pulls with you."
"You take it back now."
"I take it back," Gilbert responded, voice starting to escalate. "You know, I thought you were just kidding around, and that you and Arthur would make up the next night because you two are old perverts and that's what always happens, right, but it looks like you were serious. Aren't you able to draw a line? I feel worse for Artie than I do for you. I'd leave you too, if I were him."
Francis didn't say anything, just stood there and looked hopeless and sad.
The children were gone now, having been called in by their mothers and fathers in the late hour. One last straggler, a boy on the swings, watched them for a minute more before hopping off to walk home.
"I'd like to take you to the doctor's —" Gilbert continued, trying to appear as though he was still on Francis' side, because he only then probably realized what a crappy thing he'd just said to his best friend who probably needed him more than anyone else in the world at the moment. The silence prolonged. "Apparently, Tony's worried about you too, which is a big surprise because it's not like him to notice things like this. He told me that while you were in the kitchen moping about."
"I threw up on the back of his shirt."
Gilbert made a face. "Disgusting."
"I threw up blood," sniffed Francis prudishly, trying to forget the albino's cruel words. He tilted his face to the skies and cursed himself again and again in every language he knew for being such a weak link.
"Fuck, man. Blood? Seriously? I don't know what to do anymore, or what you should do. I just, I need to get home. Ludwig's probably tearing shit apart right now."
Francis knew that that was a lie, because Ludwig was probably one of the most well-behaved and obedient boys one could ever meet in his or her life (au contraire to his elder brother). He dipped his head quickly in agreement, but then turned sideways so that he could avoid looking at Gilbert.
"Look, I'm no help," Gilbert said.
Francis gave a meek cough in response.
"I mean, I know I'm usually a great help, since it's me and everything. But this is just something you're going to have to do alone, no matter how much you don't want to."
Oh, and how Gilbert knew Francis so well.
"Just at least try talking to Arthur. Otherwise, don't even bother asking me or Antonio for a bed anymore. You can sleep out on the streets, where the rest of the dropouts and failures go."
"I'll go to Mathieu's," Francis snapped back, a little bit triumphantly, as he shot Gilbert a look of betrayal.
"Okay, go to Mattie's." The German rolled his shoulders easily. "Go to Mattie's and hole yourself up in his attic and never come back down. And don't regret it a decade from now when you've finally got enough balls to question where your husband is and don't bother trying to patch anything up then if you find him. It's not worth it if you choose cowardice over your marriage in the first place now."
"Shut up," sighed Francis against the bars, feeling utterly exhausted.
"And," continued the albino in a much gentler tone as he placed a hand on Francis' shoulder, "go see a doctor. Seriously, or I'll drag you there myself."
"I'm not sick, Gilbert. My temperature may be running a little high, but —"
"Francis, I'm not joking around. Go see a doctor. I expect you to tell me how it goes, okay? Two days."
Francis nodded mutely, once, as Gilbert walked away.
"Welcome back, Francis-san. It's been a while."
"That would be a good thing, I should think," smiled Francis as he leaned into his chair.
"You know I would not be glad to see your health in an improper condition, but I am happy regardless simply seeing you."
Francis gave a short-lived smile that omitted his eyes. He, too, had missed Kiku Honda, but he'd never managed to find the time to visit him outside clinic hours. His old college classmate had become over time more of his doctor than simply Kiku, the polite Japanese immigrant who had originally been studying abroad before getting accepted into a medical school in France.
"The same goes for you, Kiku."
"Please, call me Dr. Honda here."
"Sorry. Dr. Honda."
Kiku's pen breezed in his neat shorthand briefly across his clipboard before he set it down. He flipped through the pages attached to Francis' profile, finding the one he needed and then folded his hands in his lap, letting Francis know that he was going to give him his full attention. "We should get started, then. I'll be forward. What brings you to the clinic for the first time in over eight months?"
Francis shrugged. "Truthfully, it was Gilbert and his pretentious concern for me. I feel fine, really."
"Ah. Mr. Beilschmidt? Your old roommate. I remember him." With that, the Asiatic man bit his lip in hesitance, as though unsure of what to say. Francis could almost laugh — that was the impression Gilbert left on most people. "You have a very caring friend, Francis-san, to worry about you so."
"Pretentious worry, I tell you," said Francis, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand. "Gilbert can be serious and mature at times, but I'm afraid this isn't one of them. I think he is overdoing it."
"Overdoing what, may I ask?"
"My being sick. I've been running a slight fever for the past couple weeks or so. Gilbert suggested that I should go see a doctor; he's been bugging me nonstop about it to make sure I follow through with his orders."
"Tell me, if you don't mind," said Kiku, forehead slightly creasing as his brows drew together. "Have you gotten a lot of sleep recently?"
"Not a lot," said Francis truthfully, picking at a stray piece of string on the hem of his sleeve.
"Is it on account of the fever?"
"To be honest, Doctor, the reasons are personal." Francis sighed, hoping not to offend the Japanese man, but he was not in the mood to share all his woes at the moment. "The insomnia is a side effect of inner angst, that's all."
"You don't have to tell me everything," smiled Kiku kindly, "But I'm worried about you, too. Not to be rude, Francis-san, but you look as though you have not been doing well — and I mean that in the most mild-mannered way possible. How long have you been spending in front of the mirror every day?"
Francis almost rolled his eyes, but kept himself under control. "Thirty minutes, give or take," he muttered.
He could swear he heard Kiku do a dramatic gasp. "Only thirty? Is that how you didn't notice the bags underneath your eyes?"
"Most people don't even spend fifteen minutes getting ready, much less thirty," continued Francis, now on the defensive. He added under his breath as a side note, "Uncultured swines."
"You don't have to say such things to win me over," said the other, picking up his clipboard once again. "You used to never spend less than an hour and a half getting ready every morning before classes. I remember."
The Frenchman opened then closed his mouth, flabbergasted.
Kiku tapped his chin with his pen three times. "Does this have anything to do with Arthur-san?" he asked nonchalantly, after an appropriate amount of time had passed between his last dramatic statement and this one.
Stubbornly, Francis shook his head, whilst at the same time asking, "How did you guess?"
Kiku shrugged. "I read your atmosphere," he said.
"It couldn't have been that easy to read," Francis twitched, feeling deflated.
"Oh, it wasn't. I just know you very well."
"Not that well —"
"Have you done something lately to anger or upset him? Pardon for interrupting."
"It's not a problem," growled Francis.
"That's a yes." Kiku made an exaggerated move with his pen to make a check-mark on Francis' page.
"Kiku —" sighed Francis, pushing himself up from the chair.
"That's Doctor Honda, Francis-san."
"Doctor Honda, I must interject. How do you know it's not Arthur who's upset me?"
"Nothing Arthur-san could do would upset you to the point of sleep deprivation and a loss of vanity, Mr. Bonnefoy."
"Actually, it was something he did!" Francis cried, almost startling the Japanese man out of his skin as he stood up. "He kicked me out of our house and broke my heart!"
"I would advise you to stop being so dramatic," said Kiku in a tone that sounded more serious than it needed to be. Francis sunk back into his seat, frustrated. "I don't think you should push your faults onto another man and have him take the blame, especially not if it's something as serious as this. If I'm wrong, Francis-san, the door is right there."
The dreaded clock made a few taunting noises for an agonizingly long period of time. Francis wondered if he could still preserve his pride if he flirted a little with the doctor and made him see it his way.
But the longer he thought about that option, the more he wanted to dismiss it as absolutely ridiculous, which it was.
"You're not wrong," Francis said miserably into his hands.
Kiku hesitated for a long moment before setting down his clipboard and crossing the room to place a hand gently on Francis' back. The Frenchman immediately flinched in surprise, knowing how much the other hated being touched or touching other people — not even out of personal choice, but cultural comfort.
"I'm no therapist," said Kiku gently, "And I'm not forcing myself onto you as one. This session was supposed to be a discussion about your health. But you know that if you ever need someone to talk to, I am here, right?"
Francis nodded, dumbly.
"Francis-san," Kiku said, with even more lingering hesitance creeping in his voice, "What did you do?"
The Parisian, for the first time, looked up directly at the Japanese man. Kiku's eyes seemed to be entrenched in sorrow, and his calm face was unusually full of emotion. Or at least, with as much emotion as he could humanly display.
And though Francis had not felt an ounce of sorrow the night he bedded Chel and the nights again or concerning the lies about his migraines or with the missed calls, he knew he would feel terrible if he looked straight at the man who genuinely wished to help him, standing in front of him right now with all his quiet strength, and cheated the truth to his face.
"I had an affair," Francis choked, his breath catching on the last word.
Kiku Honda stiffened, going positively straight-backed beside Francis. It was already too late for Francis to give a damn about anything anymore, and that certainly included telling Kiku the plain truth.
"Why did you do it?" Kiku murmured, drumming his fingers against Francis' back absentmindedly.
"I have no valid excuses. They were born of pure selfishness."
Kiku's eyes shut for a fleeting moment, and he stayed sitting there in that same position. The dreaded clock continued to tick from across the room, and within, Francis' heart beat twice in time with every second that passed.
It hadn't been the other's business to intrude upon something so personal, but the Frenchman trusted Kiku — more than he thought he did. Kiku, too, recognized the fragility of the situation and had sent Francis out shortly afterwards with a slip of paper that Francis clutched tightly, labeled with some prescription pills he recommended for ingestion.
Please remember, Kiku had said in a shaking voice as he led Francis out the door, I care for Arthur-san deeply. I truly apologize for this, because it's not my position to say anything since I myself have not seen or talked to Arthur-san in years, but I would you not hurt him anymore. If you could.
As he waited in one of the seats near the back of the pharmacy, his eye caught one of the mirrors hanging off a rack nearby. He picked it up with trembling fingers, and realized how right Kiku was. He looked god-awful, like he hadn't smiled in weeks. For what it was worth, that was true.
"Mr. Bonnefoy," came a voice from behind the counter, and Francis slowly put the mirror down and stood up.
"That's me," he answered.
A beautiful young woman smiled prettily up at him, and Francis became aware with a jolt that he hadn't even the heart to flirt anymore. She passed him a white paper bag with the receipt stapled to it, and Francis took it with some resignation. Out of habit, he opened the bag to peer inside.
"What's this?" he asked, pulling out a small, unfamiliar box.
"Doctor Honda called personally to ask that we put it with the rest of your medication."
You might have a respiratory tract infection. I suggest you take these antibiotics — and some aspirin, to be on the safe side.
"I think you're mistaken," said Francis, laughing nervously, for he didn't want to embarrass the girl. "I just came down from his office, we've already discussed what I needed."
He placed the box on the counter, pushing it away, but the other only picked it up and pressed it back in his hands. "Doctor Honda insisted," she said. "It can't hurt, can it?"
"It can," Francis said angrily. He flipped the cursed object over and scanned the words neatly imprinted upon it, as though hoping that this was all some sort of hideous joke. HIV 1&2 Rapid Screen Test, results within five minutes. "I don't have HIV."
"I don't know what to say. It wasn't my decision, sir."
"Is there a problem?" An older man, tanned in pigmentation, slid up beside the girl and leaned his thin elbows across the table. He spied Francis' hand, and then Francis' face, which was absolutely blank. "Sir, we're not insinuating anything. It's probably simply a precautionary measure."
"Would it be possible for me to see Doctor Honda again?" asked the blond calmly, disregarding how uncomfortable the other two looked. He was burning inside in anger —how could Kiku think that Francis was the sort of man this kind of thing happens to, and then go behind his back by slipping this HIV test in his belongings without his knowledge or permission?
"I'm afraid not, sir; this not a walk-in. You have to book an appointment ahead of time."
The Frenchman was about to say, I'll do that now, thank you, and flip open his phone dramatically, but then he remembered that he no longer possessed one and he suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of exhaustion come over him.
He only wanted to return home — his real home — and sleep.
He took his things and left, hating Kiku Honda for all he was — for pretending he knew Francis better than Francis knew himself, for trying to lecture him on how to take care of Arthur, for being a damned doctor with a high paying salary.
The HIV testing kit would later go underneath Antonio's bathroom essentials, hidden behind unopened packages of toothpastes and toothbrushes dusty with negligence, to be forgotten in resentment for a while yet.
